<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>all the years have turned to cloud by dingletragedy</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24698035">all the years have turned to cloud</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dingletragedy/pseuds/dingletragedy'>dingletragedy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ballum week ‘20 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>EastEnders (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Amnesia, Ballum Week (EastEnders), Ballum Week 2020 (EastEnders), Friends to Lovers, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Nostalgia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:21:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24698035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dingletragedy/pseuds/dingletragedy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Callum was nine when he lost his memories. He was eighteen when he first kissed his best friend, or so he’s told. He’s twenty-three now.</i>
</p><p>or, the retelling of callum’s lost memories.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ballum week ‘20 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780960</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all the years have turned to cloud</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello again - i'm back with day five of ballum week (distance/seperation) a day late!!! i had a completely different fic wrote for this day but late last night decided i hated it and that it'd be a good idea to write this instead... i'm not quite sure it pulled off but here we are!</p><p>i think i'm quite proud of this piece, but it's different to anything i've done before - and my writing style switched up between sections. anyway, i hope you enjoy this self-indulgent fic ft. childhood amnesia, best friends, terrible communication and the sun and moon!!! </p><p> </p><p>title from silver - dma's</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a silent and sleepy morning and everything is tinged in blazing oranges and mellow yellows, and when Callum blinks awake, the slit in the curtain is a piercing white portal to another yesterday.</p><p>His eyes are heavy and the skin around his fingers is bitten red-raw, but when he runs the tips over his face absently it feels like there could still be traces of warmth there.</p><p>Each blink is a knock against the chasm that’s carved itself in his chest, and when he finally sits up, his bones ache and creak, the act of pulling himself to the window feels like pulling himself from death. </p><p>He draws back the curtain and lets the grey sunlight in.</p><p>Callum once read about childhood amnesia and thought it was terrifying that so many years of life could be long forgotten. Like water down a river, the natural flow and ebb of a wave, building up, curling into itself, breaking on the shore and fizzling away. Never to be seen again, never the same. The body of water remains, but that pattern of sea-spray, that exact reflection of sun-shimmer under sunlight, gone forever. </p><p>And who are we without memories? Who are we without that invisible string to connect all of those consciousnesses together? How can we ever be the same without the continuum of ourselves? Maybe we aren’t the same.<em> Maybe that’s the point.  </em></p><p>He doesn’t remember the first time Ben kissed him. It might have been at the park, tucked under a tree with an empty vodka bottle spinning between four naive teenagers who knew nothing about anything at all. Least of all, <em> love</em>. Or it might’ve been in a dark hotel room with the television glowing in static, spilling shadows between the wet space of their mouths. Or maybe it was in this very bedroom, four in the morning spilling through the curtains, their eyes half-closed against the demanding rising sun, and Callum’s record player ebbing <em> Live Forever</em>, the strong accents of Oasis’ mocking Callum. </p><p>Maybe they were drunk, most likely. Maybe that’s why Callum can’t remember the moment. <em> Maybe. </em> But he knows the feeling like the back of his hand, like permanent ink, like he knows his Ben’s voice. That tentativeness, that holding of breath. Then its the touch of palms, hands making homes. And then finally, lips on lips, lashes touching because to be so close was never close enough for the two of them. He can recall thinking <em>oh </em>and then <em>yes </em>and then <em> I feel like I’ve known these lips, his heart, forever </em>but that was impossible because Callum hadn’t even known himself for that long. </p><p><em> “We should stop,” </em> he’d said, right there at the park, or at the hotel, or on that bed. </p><p>But Ben had just kissed him again, made Callum’s toes curl so hard they started to cramp up. </p><p><em> “I don’t want to,” </em> Ben said. His thumb touched Callum’s chin, and he kissed the corner of Callum’s eye. Nobody had ever touched him like that before. <em> “Never want to stop.”  </em></p><p><em> “We have to,” </em> Callum had started, and then, <em> “one day.”  </em></p><p><em> “Yeah,” </em> Ben had agreed, tears in his eyes. Callum remembers that, always will. <em> “Let’s have tonight, though. Just tonight.” </em></p><p><em> “Okay,” </em>Callum said, because that was okay. Tonight was okay. Just this once was okay. Then it’d never be the same.</p><p>
  <em> Never again. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>nine years old</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> Nine is best friend journals and stickers and dewy autumn cheeks, star gazing past clouds and building telescopes from toilet rolls and sellotape. The world tinged bright blue nighttime curling their eyelids gently shut at eight-thirty, sleepovers on the weekends at the Queen Vic, too many sweets making for swirling tummies, young and bright and friend-love. Nine is memories stolen, never replaced. </em>
</p><p>——</p><p>The sun is blazing today. They’ve spent the day out on the park, drawing silly faces and growing flowers along the fence with chalk. Soon autumn will wash them away with her dreaded rain and auburn-spun leaves, but for now, they’re there, they’re vibrant and clear. For now,<em> Callum remembers. </em> </p><p>“What if we could fly,” Ben says later in the day, the sun dropping low in the sky, blushing across the sky as it meets the moon. His cheeks are sunburnt and his nose is freckled and he looks happy, so happy. “Where would you go?”</p><p>“To space,” Callum answers. “Of course.” </p><p>“You can’t breathe in space,” Ben says, and when he smiles his eyes are watery because the sun is slanting through the trees now, and that magenta has turned lavender and translucent. “Silly.” </p><p>“I’d wear snorkelers, stupid,” Callum nudges Ben’s small shin with his foot.</p><p>“You’re crazy,” Ben laughs, bright and brilliant. “Why would you wanna go to space?” </p><p>“So I could go to the moon,” Callum says. Obviously. “I’d collect dust from it and put it in a jar, keep it forever and ever.”</p><p>“But the moon is made of cheese,” Ben says, straight-faced for what seems only a split second before his lips wobble and he’s laughing. His hair is brown but in this golden moment, it looks shiny and brilliant. </p><p>“You’re so silly,” Callum shoves his shoulder, gently. “Fine. where would you go?”</p><p>Ben rolls onto his back, smoothes out the overgrowing grass between them,chalk-stained fingers picking daisy. “The sun.”</p><p>“Well, that’s just it, then,” Callum says. “I’ll go to the moon and you can go to the sun and we’ll wave at each other from up there.”</p><p>“Okay,” Ben says, grinning that wide and dopey way he does when they’re both being ridiculous, the way he has done for every summer that Callum has known him.</p><p>Callum Highway,<em> in love with the moon.  </em></p><p>Ben Mitchell, <em> in love with the sun.  </em></p><p>
  <em> One falls, so the other can rise.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>fourteen years old</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> Fourteen is a winter full of warmth. Ben’s cheeks are prickled pink and his fingers full of stars, an orange glow in the chill of the school corridors. Fourteen is warm palms and cold fingertips, textbook spines cracking, noses pressed against the tales of Shakespeare, words Callum wouldn’t ever understand, nor remember. It’s wool blankets, toes tucked into calves, chins on shoulders, innocent fingers brushing, palms held precious and close.</em>
</p><p>——</p><p>The morning awakes in a slow, watery blink. There’s a snowstorm rattling outside, kissing wet and icy on the windows and fogging up the glass. It doesn’t touch Ben or Callum, though, not while they’re bundled under Kathy’s home-knitted blankets on the sofa, their toes little blue pinpricks, cool when they brush. </p><p>The fire is crackling across the room, little firework pops of ash and red sparks. Callum feels his chest burst in time with them, and when Ben places a palm over his back and curls closer, winter melts away.</p><p>“It’s too cold,” Ben complians, even though sweat is glistening his forehead. He smells sweet, smells like icing sugar and gingerbread, like christmas. <em> Like home. </em></p><p>“Well, it is winter,” Callum says. That earns him a kick in the shin.</p><p>“Shut up,” Ben mumbles as he closes his eyes to smile, lets Callum nuzzle closer and pull the blankets entirely over their heads.</p><p>When Callum opens his eyes again, the light comes through the sheet in soft yellows and pinks, and Ben is already watching him, all ocean eyed and doe-like, big, wid and full of possibilities, of moments and half-formed memories. Their hands are resting together, and he nudges his knuckles gently with Callum’s and smiles.</p><p>The house creaks, wind and snow shaking it with its cruel hands.</p><p>“Promise me we’ll always have this?” Callum asks into the sheets.</p><p>“Have what?” Ben says.</p><p>“This,” Callum confirms. He brushes their fingers together again, slips his thumb under and against Ben’s palm; warm and familiar, a fluttering heartbeat in his hands. “Me and you.<em> Us</em>.” </p><p>“I promise,” Ben says. He links their pinkies together gently. “You’re my best friends in the whole world.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>sixteen years old</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> Sixteen is hand-holding and vibrant cheeks, quiet dusks and quieter dawns, baby love blooming soft and steady. Sixteen is nervous stomachs and shaky hearts, from curious eyes and roaming hands, stilled eyes smiling at each other beneath the sheets. Sixteen is an oblivious, giddy bubble.</em>
</p><p>——</p><p>“What’s your biggest dream?” Callum asks, cutting through the comfortable silence that had settled between them.</p><p>It’s late at night, and they both really should be asleep, but neither of them can seem to cross that line. Callum drifts every now and again—it’s hard not to when he has his head on his best friend’s chest and Ben keeps running his fingers through Callum’s hair—but never quite getting any deeper. He doesn’t mind much. Sure, they both have to get up early for college, but there’s something about conversations that occur before the break of dawn, buried under a thousand dancing stars.</p><p>Ben hums thoughtfully, mulling it over in his mind. “I want to study aerospace engineering at University, Manchester, probably. I want to discover something new, have my name up in lights - Ben Mitchell, creator of the all-new <em> A3-whatever</em>. Move to New York, Qatar, or wherever is all the world-famous creators live these days. I want to be a star, so well-loved that people travel to Eastenders just to visit my hometown. I don’t even care about the money, really, I just want to wake up in the morning and feel something more than this, y’know?”</p><p>Calum Looks up at him. “New York?” He asks, and Ben nods, eyes twinkling along. The hand in Callum’s hair stills as Callum looks off into the distance, through the gap in the curtain, out to the moon and the stars and—New York. “that’s a really big dream.”</p><p>“What about you? What’s yours?”</p><p>The only thing that Callum could fathom dreaming about and wishing for, is for everything to be just like this for the rest of his life. For everything to have <em> always </em> been like this. </p><p>“Not that,” Callum rebukes, looking up at Ben for a moment before glancing back out into the distance. “Nothing special, really.” </p><p>“I just—I just want more, you know? Don’t you ever want more?”</p><p>Suddenly, Callum Wishes they’d just gone to sleep. He really doesn’t like where this conversation is headed. “More than what?” He dares to ask, his voice quiet and unsure, shaking like a fallen Autumn leaf in the Winter winds.  </p><p>“More than this. More than— you know, more than sitting in bed at three am in my Dad’s pub, just talking about making it big. Don’t you ever want that? Don’t you ever picture yourself on a big stage, staring out at thousands and thinking of how far you’ve come? Familiar faces proud after all these years.”</p><p>He knows Ben isn’t expecting Callum to say <em> no</em>, that all he ever wanted growing up was parents that loved him, friends that accepted him, and a mind that <em> remembered</em>.  </p><p>That’s all he’s ever wanted, love, acceptance, and memories. but Ben isn’t expecting him to say that, so he doesn’t. Instead, he hides his face from Ben’s sight and says, “to remember. My biggest dream is to remember.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>eighteen years old</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> Eighteen is Callum losing Ben to a city unknown, people too. Eighteen is road—trips to the next city over, miles of untouched land and a bench on top of a hill. It’s red skies, pink skies, skies of purple and orange, streaks pulling together. Eighteen is teenage angst, dewey tears and broken hearts, countless doctors appointments taken in favour of university.</em>
</p><p>——</p><p>There’s this heaviness to Callum’s head that makes him feel like he’s about to melt back into the sheets. It’s nearing midnight, the evening sweeping in with a soft mist of rain, spritzing the window with tiny drops. The streetlight catches it, creates a flurry of navy blue shapes, dark shadows clinging to the corners of the room, lighter tones brushing almost silver over the crinkles in the blankets and the tips of their noses. </p><p>Ben looks like he’s asleep but Callum knows that he isn’t. The corner of his mouth keeps twitching slightly, that same little quirk he tries to dampen when he’s remembering something funny, <em> something that makes him happy</em>, and Callum knows, because that’s what he’s thinking about, too. </p><p><em> Happiness. </em> </p><p>Happiness, the sun slick on the tarmac where the light caught on the puddles littering the station platform, the rain holding off for just for a little while, the whole world painted mellow yellow. Happiness, touching Ben again for the first time in months, different but the same. </p><p>“I’ve missed you.” </p><p>“Well I ain’t missed you at all,” Callum says, haughty. “Not one bit.”</p><p>“Tell that to my phone,” Ben says and Callum can feel his cheeks going hot, that prickling sensation crawling up his neck the longer Ben stares at him like that, smirking yet having no idea how much it’s making Callum want to curl closer. </p><p>“You’d be lost without my daily updates,” Callum says, softer now. He’s taken too long to say anything and Ben’s smirk has faded. He’s just watching Callum idly, their hands touching.</p><p>“Believe it or not, I don’t need to be notified every time Jay forgets what day it is, or Ian says something offensive,” Ben says. He shifts as he’s speaking, rolling onto his side. His knuckles brush Callum’s shoulder, and then he presses in, a minuscule shove.</p><p>Callum turns, too, knees bumping for an awkward moment before they figure it out, Ben’s foot brushing between Callum’s calves. They’re so much closer, now, touching <em> here-and-here-and-here, </em>and now the light’s brushing Ben from behind, hiding his face. All Callum can make out is the soft shine in his eyes, the slope of his nose. He shifts himself down the pillow in the hopes of hiding his own face from the moonlight. </p><p>“You're telling me that don’t make your day?” Callum says, fake-affronted, enough to make Ben roll his eyes a little. “That you don't just light right up when you see it's me texting you?”</p><p>“You already know the answer to that,” Ben says. </p><p>
  <em> But I want to hear you say it. It's not the same until you say it. </em>
</p><p>It’s still raining, the sound of it like far away foam from small swells, and each pulse taps his lids shut. He can hear Ben breathing, and he almost considers holding his own breath just to listen to it a little better, to memorise the pattern exactly so he can match it when he has to be on his own again.</p><p>It’s been three months since Ben moved to Manchester, three awful, lonely month, but some days he wakes up and it feels like it’s only been days, struck with the need to call Ben and ask him for help with things he doesn’t really need help with, struck with feeling like maybe this is the end of them, this is the time they become two passing ships, drowned in moonlight. </p><p>Some days he wakes up and he goes for a walk because staying in bed thinking about a boy hundreds of miles away won’t ever do him any good.</p><p>But now he’s with that boy again, lying just across the sheets from him. </p><p>Callum really never thought it was possible to miss somebody who’s right in front of you, but that’s what this feels like. Needing somebody so much that even their presence in the here and now doesn’t feel like enough. He just wants to know,<em> somehow, someway, </em> that they’ll always see each other again.</p><p>“Ben?” Callum whispers, because he’s gone suspiciously quiet, hands relaxed between them. It’s so late, he knows, and they’re both tired enough as it is from the day, but the thought of missing a moment awake together is terrifying for reasons Callum doesn’t want to think too hard about. </p><p>“Mm,” Ben hums, lashes shifting.</p><p>The rain is picking up again. Outside, a lone car sweeps down the street, a brief flash of yellow light that jumps in through the window like a spike in a pulse, sudden and bright.</p><p>“I really missed you,” Callum admits, the vulnerability of nighttime and tiredness cracking him open, turned inside out like a raw nerve. “Like, <em> so </em> much.”</p><p>Ben finally looks at him again, a slow, sleepy sweep of his lashes as he regards Callum quietly. And,<em> God, </em>the last thing Callum wants is to look desperate, or to make Ben feel guilty. That’s not what this is. He can just feel his mood gradually crashing. The peak of joy he felt when he lept into Ben’s arms this morning has melted, caught on a glint of sun, and the heavy, dark blue bulb that’s below the surface is trying to tilt up and show its face.</p><p><em> They were never meant to be two ships passing in the night. </em> They’ve never been like that, and Callum doesn’t want them to ever become those people. Glossing over each other with each visit, slowly drifting further and further apart each time until they’re just specks across a string of winding roads. </p><p>“Don’t make me cry,” Ben says, teasing, but Callum can hear it, that tight gruffness to Ben’s voice that he always puts on when he doesn’t want Callum to see him upset. </p><p>“I missed you like I missed Ian’s offensive comment number<em> seven-hundred and twenty-three </em> this morning,” Callum says, laughing wetly, “coming all the way up here to hear it form you instead.”</p><p>Ben’s laughter is a burst, something so bright that reminds Callum of being a boy, of living two houses down from Ben and picking flowers from the garden and throwing them to him over the fence, of riding their bikes down the hill on the corner and scraping their knees and growing up and gradually calving out these spaces for each other in their chests, little homes to nestle into. </p><p>They laugh for so long, these muffled giggles, and Ben is still touching Callum’s wrists, brushing the skin of his forearms, these tiny firecracker touches. And, it’s just so much, and Callumjust has to be a little closer, has to let himself tip forward so their foreheads nudge, so dark inside that all Callum has now is touch. </p><p>Ben’s laughter fades, and then there’s a stillness, Callum staring down at the wet of Ben’s lip, the softest silver glint caught there, they’re touching <em>here-and-here-and-here </em> and the radio plays and their faces are so close, noses bumping, the brush of a cheek, and Callum sucks in a tiny breath and gently, finally, lets himself lean in.</p><p>It’s barely a whisper of a touch, but he hears Ben inhale, feels him tense as their mouths softly brush. Their tongues meet with a cautious press, and they stay that way for a few moments before Ben pulls away a little, then ducks down again. Callum lets him lead, lets him hold his face in his big hand, because his brain is a muddle of heat and jarred murmurs.</p><p>It feels like all those lost memories bundled up, like all Callum has to do is breathe in time and it’ll all slot into place, right there for him to see. <em> To remember.</em></p><p><em>“We should stop</em>,” he says then, not because h wants to, but because he feels he has to. </p><p>But Ben just kisses him again, makes Callum’s toes curl so hard they start to cramp up. </p><p><em>“I don’t want to,”</em> Ben says, words smudged against lips. His thumb touches Callum’s chin, and he kissed the corner of Callum’s eye. Nobody had ever touched him like that before.<em>“Never want to stop.” </em></p><p>“We have to,” Callum stars, and then adds, “one day.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Ben agress, tears in his eyes. “Let’s have tonight, though. Just tonight.”</p><p>“Okay,” Callum says, because that was okay. Tonight was okay. </p><p>As they lay together, white noise becomes lost to the sounds of their hearts.</p><p>But he’s not lost, he thinks as Ben kisses him again, mouth warm; toothpaste and coffee. <em> He’s home. </em></p><p>
  <em> Ben. Ben. Ben. Foreign on his tongue. Familiar in his heart </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>twenty-one years old</b>
</p><p><em> Twenty-one </em> <em> is cinema trips that never end, tens of red, plastic chairs and a back row deserted, waiting for love. Its ageing hands cupped around soft jaws and arms and hips, traces of sweet and salt taught in their teeth. Twenty-one is a whirlwind of love and loss and faces that aren’t Ben’s. </em></p><p>——</p><p>Callum’s date tips his wine glass to his lips, pearl-white teeth staining red. “Do you want to do this again sometime?” Callum asks.</p><p>“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he says quietly, guilt consumes Callum, like the moon consumes the sky. “What’s on your mind? Or should I say, who?” </p><p>“A lot of things,” Callum answers honestly, tongue caught red-wine loose. “I’m sorry I ain’t been much fun tonight.” </p><p>“No need to apologise.”</p><p>Callum shrugs, “I feel as though I’ve wasted your time, Harry.”</p><p>“Wasted it? Nah,” the guy laughed. “If anything, I think this date has been incredibly beneficial. I got a free meal and you’ve discovered that you’re still in love with him.<em> Whoever he is. W </em>e both win in the end, hm?”</p><p>Callum wanted to ask how he knew Callum was still hung up on someone, but he didn’t. </p><p>Instead, he says, “I didn’t have to discover that. I've always known. I don’t know a lot, but that, that’s crystal clear.”</p><p>“Tell me something else you know?”</p><p>“I don’t know how to – how to exist if it’s not with him.”</p><p>
  <em> “And?” </em>
</p><p>“I’d give him the moon.” </p><p>
  <em> “And?” </em>
</p><p>“I’m in love with him.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>twenty-two years old</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> Twenty-two is karaoke with Ben at the Queen Vic, Callum’s face flushed, drunk on whisky and red wine and larger, everything you’re supposed to drink at when you’re twenty-two. It’s the crack of pool cues and the lurching ring of the slot—machines, smoke in the beer garden hazed with orange fairy lights, staggering up the drive at three in the morning, voices drifting up to the sky. Twenty-two is weekend fights, temporary love, pinks and reds pulled to shade by blacks and greys.</em>
</p><p>——</p><p>It all starts with an offhand comment. </p><p>It’s almost eight o’clock, dinner done and dishes cleaned. Down the hall, Jay and Lola are watching a movie, sound carrying through the open door of Ben’s room. Ben is sprawled on the bed behind him, scrolling lazily on his phone, one knee bent up as he scratches absently at his thigh. They’ve had a quiet day, spent watching films and kissing and attempting to bake cupcakes, trapped inside by the rain.</p><p>Callum is rummaging through Ben’s drawers slowly. “Have you seen my shirt?”</p><p>He hears Ben snort. “Very specific. You’ve got many shirts, Cal. Too many.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Callum rolls his eyes and grins at him over his shoulder, purses his lips at the smirk in Ben’s eyes. “I ain’t. Anyway, the pink one, with the collar? You know, the one you always complain about, don’t fit me properly apparently.” </p><p>“Ah, yeah,” Ben hums in recognition. “Your Salmon shirt.”</p><p>“It’s not salmon-,” Callum laughs. He knows it must be here somewhere, most of his clothes are, afterall. I just, I want to take it back to mine, you’re going back up to Manchester tomorrow and if I don’t take it now it’ll be stuck here for another two months.” </p><p>It’s quiet for a moment, the echo of two months ringing their ears, and then, with a lilt that makes Callum’s fingers twitch, Ben says, “Might as well just pack all your stuff up, ain’t ya?”</p><p>Callum pauses, and looks at him over his shoulder. Ben is just staring at him blankly. “Why?” </p><p>Ben shrugs, nonchalant, and it’s so infuriating, the way he blinks innocently and goes back to typing on his phone. Callum inhales and exhales slowly, jaw clenched. He can barely find it in himself to be angry. Mostly, he just feels defeated, and crushed, and on the verge of crying as he watches Ben tap his feet together, carefully silent and not making eye contact.</p><p>“Ben,” Callum grits out. He doesn’t look up, and Callum slams the drawer closed, breathing in sharply, not missing Ben’s flinch. <em> “Fine. You know what, fine.”  </em></p><p>He moves across the room, hauls his bag up onto the bed and starts to shove his neatly folded clothes inside, scoops up his sunglasses and his phone and charger from the bedside table, throws it all inside messily, tears threatening when the zip gets stuck and won’t budge, and he tugs at it uselessly, full of hurt and anger and just–</p><p>“Where are you going?” Ben says suddenly, sitting up and watching Callum make a mess, a quiet look of alarm flickering over his features. </p><p>“Home,” Callum says, and the word makes him even madder, feels like soap in his mouth feels foreign and odd. There’s only one word that feels familiar on his tongue<em>. One name. </em></p><p>“Don’t go,” Ben says. Callum shakes his head and rounds the bed, but Ben is there, springing up and blocking the doorway, hands behind his back and gripping the handle. “We’ve only got tonight, Cal, don’t.” </p><p><em> “Why?” </em>Callum exhales harshly. “Why should I stay? Tell me, Ben.” </p><p>Ben looks up at him, wide-eyed and shaky. He opens his mouth, closes it. Nothing comes, and Callum scrunches his eyes closed, pulls his lips into his mouth and tilts his head away, trying to fight the misty heat that’s glazing his vision. He feels Ben’s hands, feels them reach for his own slowly, and he wrenches away.</p><p><em> “Don’t,” </em>he spits, wet and broken. “Unless you want to talk, you aren’t touching me. I ain’t letting you fucking coax me into bed, Ben.”</p><p>“That’s not what I—” Ben inhales, sharp and with a flinch of his chest, eyes narrowing and growing cold. “Is that what you think?”</p><p>“Who fucking knows what I think,” Callum laughs humorously. “I wouldn’t know, <em> I don’t know anything.” </em></p><p>He half stumbles across the hall, but when he tries the door that leads down to the garage, it’s locked, and he’s so aware of Jay and Lola in the lounge, hearing all of this. </p><p>But he’s past the point of caring, now, and it’s painfully awkward and awful when he storms down the hall and through the room, sliding the side door open with an obnoxious creak, Jay and Lola watching silently with their mouths parted as Ben tries to follow him into the night. His face is wet when he stumbles down onto the driveway, dewy tears stubborn and relentless against the bleary glow of the streetlamps. </p><p>“Callum!” Ben calls, distant and broken. Callum doesn’t turn around, just keeps walking, grits his teeth when he hears gravel spraying, when he hears footsteps thudding behind him on the pavement, laboured, shaky breathing. “Cal, please. Don’t do this.” </p><p>He stays silent, and Ben tries to keep up with him, half-jogging to match Callum’s long, determined strides through the darkness. Callum’s breath is shuddery and sharp, throat stinging from the cold air, the chilled breeze cutting through the market stalls, biting and harsh. </p><p>“Callum, stop! Cal, just – for fuck sake,” Ben speeds up for a moment, breaks into a quick jog so he can jump in front of him, palms up and outstretched. </p><p>He’s got a silver aura, the moon finally peeking through the thick clouds and shooting bullet-like rays along the peaks of the stalls. “I’m sorry.” </p><p>Callum’s not thinking when his shoulders droop, when he follows Ben’s gaze back up to the sky, to the stars and moons and<em> Manchester </em> and <em> New York.  </em></p><p>“I love you, you know?” he murmurs, a sad smile curling over his mouth before he can stop it, because he’s upset and mad but he doesn’t want this to be spiteful. The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels something tug in his chest, though it’s more of a rip, a painful tear, blood gushing through his entire body and making his mind swim, vision fuzzy and numb. </p><p>“No, you don’t,” Ben whispers, and Callum’s gaze snaps to him, wide-eyed and shocked and broken because he hadn’t expected for him to say<em> that. </em></p><p><em> “What?” </em> he breathes, tears beading in the corners of his eyes.</p><p><em> “ </em>You don’t love me, Callum,” Ben says softly, and Callum’s entire heart shatters into a thousand pieces.</p><p>“Yes, I do,” he says earnestly, but he feels like a child, like he’s petulant; begging and crying while Ben is just staring at him. “I love you, and you love me too.” </p><p>Ben lets out a long breath, puts his hands to his face and covers it, digs his fingertips so harshly into his eyes Callum almost reaches out for him, almost circles his wrists and presses his hands over his heart instead, almost says<em> take it, it’s yours, don’t you see it belongs to you? </em></p><p>“This isn’t love, Callum,” Ben says, muffled behind his hands. Callum pulls away from him, recoils, because each word is a nail in the coffin, in his chest, pinpricks in his eyes that burst the fine film keeping his tears in.</p><p>“How can you say that?” Callum whispers, choked and lost under the screaming winds, twin pearls sliding along his cheeks and kissing his jaw, hovering there until they fall and dot his shirt. “How can you say that, after everything?” </p><p>“Because it’s true,” Ben says, chest heaving with it as he turns his face, fingers curling into loose fists against his cheek. Callum shakes his head, shakes it so much that his brain rattles.</p><p>“I love you,” he says, defiant but so small. </p><p>“How can you love me, <em> when you don’t even remember me? </em> How can I love you, <em> when I remember everything?”  </em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>twenty-three years old</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> Twenty-three is now.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Callum was nine when he lost his memories. He was eighteen when he first kissed his best friend, or so he’s told. He’s twenty-three now.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s twenty-three and he’s dreaming. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Callum Highway is dreaming. </p><p>The sky is magenta and the world is golden glazed. Sunflowers grow taller than it all. There’s a hand in his, soft, warm and smaller than his own. It’s the kind of dream that feels like a solar flare passing over a childhood memory.</p><p>He’s dreaming of grazed knees, home-knitted blanket and unreached dreams. He’s dreaming of rainy days and gentle lips, weekend love and sharp words, for the sun and the moon and he’s dreaming of—<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe he’s not.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe he’s not dreaming at all.<br/>
<br/>
<em> He’s remembering</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Tell me something you remember?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re my very best friend, Ben.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Now tell me something you know?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve loved you forever.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” Callum says, feeble, tears spilling over, he feels so impossibly, stupidly young despite it all. Time freezes between them, each of Ben’s slow blinks pitching chunks from Callum’s already-chipped heart, carving out a space there, in their own version of <em> forever</em>.</p><p>“And I love you,” Ben whispers, and it’s so, so quiet. But it’s enough. “More than anything.”</p><p>Callum wishes he could catch this moment in his hands, keep it always, but moments, like memories, are made up of sand, of water, air, things that can never last. It’s slipping. The sky is flushing pink and it’s all slipping, and the shadow is shifting, and they’re tucked in close and wilting together, and the sun is rushing closer, closer, <em> faster-faster-faster</em>, frantic and pushing through the trees to find them, on it’s way to the moon.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (I loved you yesterday, I love you now, and I’ll love you with every tomorrow I have.) </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>kodus/comments are so very appreciated. dingletragedy on tumblr/twitter</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>